Atlas, the winds of spring

Love, and other forms of distraction

Since the start of this week, a hint of fresh mango and ginger has graced my room, courtesy of a tea mishap on my rug. Initially offering a mild sense of comfort, the scent has gradually become more assertive as the days pass, reminiscent of aged perfume.

As a result, today's entry might seem a bit scattered, and a little later, as I'm currently preoccupied with laundry duties.

“Tell Me More” by Danielle McKinney

To be perfectly honest, I haven't had much to share this week. March has arrived, and with spring just three weeks away, I should feel more upbeat, but I'm feeling a bit subdued by it all. Time seems to drag on, yet when I try to recollect any recent moments, they appear hazy, like a distant memory.

I can't recall much apart from exhaling a breath I hadn't realized I was holding as February came to an end. It was a shallow breath, almost dizzying, much like my feelings towards the entire month. I found myself lost in thoughts of scenarios that would never unfold and conversations that would never happen, seeking closure in situations that had long been resolved and unanswered questions; and I suppose that's why when a publication I contribute to asked for a themed playlist surrounding love, I provided one.

Albeit, it was with some hesitation as my personalized description read,

“In the month of loud love, I found comfort in the quiet corner of the local cafe… At times, my gaze would drift to the young couple beyond the glass wall; watching their eyes soften with enchantment, knowing mine harbored in bittersweet nostalgia.”

I’ve found that there's a curious phenomenon that accompanies aging – it's the level of transparency you're willing to embrace. During the peak of adolescents and early adulthood, there's a certain discomfort in complete honesty. You desire vulnerability but fear exposure, leading to a tendency to tell the truth about the broader aspects while embellishing the specifics. Clearly, I've surpassed that stage– the contrast between my sole entries in February, "A Genuine Connection" and "A Broken Valentine," speaking volumes. 

It's in that middle ground that I've been navigating for the past few months, and while I'm certain I've mentioned my breakup, the details escape me. I've never been one to freely disclose romantic experiences because they've never felt like solely my tale to tell. However, to be transparent, it's been challenging. Not because I'm in pain or anything like that, but because I feel somewhat adrift.

A few nights ago, I confided in one of my closest friends about it. I told him that, for the first time in a long while, I truly feel alone. Not in a melancholic sense, but in a way that demands I discover what I truly desire for myself. I've been fortunate to attract partners who've always considered a shared future, regardless of the duration of our romances. But being caught in a perpetual cycle of having someone by my side has left me feeling somewhat lost.

I feel like I understand myself better within a romantic relationship compared to outside of one – although the essence of who I am remains the same, there are subtle differences. Outside of relationships, I'm less vibrant, more subdued, and perhaps less "alive." I thought it had to do with my injury, but I don’t think it does and it makes me wonder if something is missing.

For instance, on the day I received the inquiry about the playlist, I found myself in a cozy café in Midtown, just a few streets away from the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building (NYPL). I found myself lost in the flavors of a blueberry croissant and the soothing warmth of chamomile tea, all while casually observing passersby through the café window. The broken speakers played the third John Mayer song in a row, and amidst it all, a singular thought echoed in my mind: the desire to share this moment with someone.

The thing is, I could have shared it. I have plenty of friends who would have joined me on a spontaneous trip to the city, and I’ve acquainted myself with a few  potential romantic interests. Yet, that's not the companionship I yearned for. What I long for is a familiar kind of love – the kind where even silence speaks volumes; and I can't help but wonder if it's because I'm evolving into a hopeless romantic who holds a genuine fascination with love, or if it's because I simply prefer the version of myself that emerges when I'm being hopelessly romantic.

I've always had a hard time discerning when relationships were heading towards a final ending or a new beginning, especially in matters of love – and I feel last month was when this struggle truly hit home. When it came to this particular relationship, there had been a pause about two years ago, for better or worse. Yet, when we reconnected, it felt like a fresh start more than anything else. It felt familiar, yet different, and perhaps that's why when what initially seemed like a brief pause for the second time a few months ago, neither of us expected it to feel indefinite, and eventually culminated in a permanent separation.

The intensity of it all became overwhelming. So intense was the experience that, despite my plans to read two romance books (in the spirit of the month) and write two full reviews for the book club, I couldn't even make it past the first half of the first book. It all felt too real, too raw. In fact, the initial note I penned for it encapsulated this feeling perfectly:

“The novel begins with the narrator’s exploration of her parents’ relationship – from its enchanting beginning, where each word exudes a somewhat messy yet passionate display of youth and enchantment, to its conclusion – marked by moments of wearisome despair and heartache. The essence of their love story unfolds over about ten, maybe twenty pages – after which you find yourself trapped in a cycle, yearning to recapture that initial feeling. Reading new chapters becomes a blend of reminiscing on the old ones, all undertaken with the sole purpose of persevering through the narrative.”

The book was "An Impossible Love" by Christine Angot, and in the second and final note I'd written about it, I continued by saying:

"...The author's writing style makes it evident that her recollections weren’t from a place of clarity but rather a space of turmoil, akin to forcing yourself to remember moments you spent trying to forget. And I understand that. Some writers express their memories through deep reflections, while others choose a slightly fragmented approach – coherent enough to understand, yet dismantled enough to leave you questioning – and this book is the latter."

During the time I spent reading, I hadn't realized that despite my aversion to its slightly fragmented approach, it reflected how I was navigating life. I recall experiencing beautiful moments and conversations that never fully cemented into memories, likely because I was too immersed in the emotions of the moment. 

But, on a lighter note –

February felt like a blend of both the best and worst moments, as it brought to light many things I had previously overlooked. For those who've experienced Armonia at this time last year, you know this time of the year tends to mark a shift.

Warm breezes of Spring prompt me to trade hot herbal teas for chilled black or green teas, soft jazz for lively samba tunes, and all-black ensembles for more neutral and natural outfits. With the changing season, my writing flows more effortlessly, reflecting the heightened emotions that come with this transition.

As we approach the next post, we'll be just days away from the arrival of spring – a time when life feels especially beautiful, and New York City awakens from its collective restlessness. Don't forget to follow along with The Book Club, where I've finally discovered something I can fully immerse myself in. Looking forward to our next conversation.

Best,

S